


Partner Dance

by cleverqueen



Series: Kinetics [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Angst, Episode: s01e10 Progeny, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleverqueen/pseuds/cleverqueen
Summary: If Mick and Len traditionally solve their problems with dance battles instead of violence, the "make-up" scene in Progeny has to go a different way.





	Partner Dance

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the third or fourth installment in the Kinetics series... of which I've only written the first installment. Oops. I don't think this out-of-order posting messes with the story, but here's the missing background:
> 
> Once, Mick and Len hid from the Families and the IRS by pretending to be ballet dancers with the all-male troupe Les Ballets Trockadero des Monte Carlo. Len played Odette in Swan Lake. Their ballet training came in handy from that one time they did pairs figure skating.
> 
> Shout out to lacommunarde who encouraged me to post this without having the intervening stories ready to go.

_Exactly, here's my proposal. I open this cell; we let our fists do the talking. When I kill you, you take the jump ship, make your escape, live out the rest of your life anywhere you like._

You steel yourself for his agreement. No matter what happens next, your partnership is over. You’ve got nothing in common anymore, and this fight is only going to prove it. You tell people that you fight out your differences, that this is the only language you speak. But it’s a lie. So many lies. Maybe they were prophecies. Your heart hammers. 

You’ve never liked violence in your relationships, reminded you too much of your da. And Mick’s never taken a hand to you or your sister, knows it would upset you both.

“Hmm,” Mick rumbles. He levers up off his bench and stalks closer to evaluate you. “You don’t look ready for our kind of battle. I bet you didn’t even warm up before coming here.”

You can’t have heard that right. The pounding in your chest takes on a more hopeful beat. “You can’t mean that,” you say.

“Gideon,” he addresses his AI jailor who is always listening. “Give us some music. Piano, a waltz. Oh, and set the video feed to make us look like we’re grappling.” He slips off his boots.

“Mr. Snart?” Gideon asks. She probably can’t take orders from a prisoner.

Your ankles tingle, symptom of numbness creeping up from your toes. Is this still your Mick? Your partner and your friend? Does he want to settle things the old fashioned way and come out of the battle more in synch than ever? Does he miss you as much as you miss him? Does he forgive you for leaving him behind? Does he forgive you for choosing the Legends over him? He must. If he’s willing to choose you over freedom. 

“Do as the man asks, Gideon,” you approve it all. “And open the door.”

The glass swishes open. A plinking waltz starts up. Mick takes a hold of a metal bar on the cage’s side. It’s about hip level and sturdy enough not to be misused by a prisoner. You grab it with your opposite hand so that you can face him, a body’s distance between you. You’ve left your boots outside the cage. Their unyielding soles have no place here.

Together, you go through the motions of warming up. Plié plié plié, tendu tendu tendu, releve, demi-plié. Stretch and twist, turn and repeat. You do a series of chassés and chaine turns across the floor before Mick deems the both of you ready.

“Gideon,” he says, “play _Swan Lake_.”

It’s cheating, stacking the odds in his favor. He hasn’t spent months drilling a specific choreography to this song. Doesn’t feel phantom blisters and toe shoes the moment the music begins. Your mouth tilts up at a wry corner; good for Mick. You offered him your head, and if all he wants is your pride and your apology in the form of your faltering body, then that’s what he’ll get.

The battle starts. His first move is a giant leap that the cell can barely contain. You follow with a similar jump, but one that doesn’t even try for the height and distance. You look purposeful when you trip-land onto the bench and dip into a standing split.

He lifts you off it one-handedly, twirls you over his head, and seats you on the bunch. He then proceeds to jump and spin in a dizzying display of power and flexibility. His turning jumps continue for an implausible minute. He does forty-four pique turns in a row. He quirks his eyebrow at you to indicate it is your turn.

And still, _Swan Lake_ plays on echoing speakers. You trip over your instincts when you attempt twenty grand jetés in thirty seconds, falling out of the twelfth one and into the standard choreography. Instead of pushing those instincts away, you give in. And when you hit Odette’s thirty-two fouetté turns, you smile. This took ages to perfect. Mick may still win the battle, but he can’t deny your prowess here. Thirty-two turns, no travelling across the floor.

By the ninth turn, you already know this will end badly. You’re out of practice. You’re not wearing toe shoes. You’ve moved noticeably downstage right already, and there are twenty-three turns to go.

“Change the music, Gideon,” Mick says.

He has the right. He’s won. You are useless. A terrible friend and partner. Mick didn’t need to kill you when he could humiliate you instead. You keep your head up and shoulders back, unwilling to demonstrate why he should give up on you. You’re nothing to him anymore, but you don’t have to look like nothingness.

“Change it to the pas de deux from _Coppelia_ ,” Mick says.

You choke and your whole body turns toward him. 

He runs a hand down your closest arm and takes your hand. “We’re partners,” he says, and lets you lead him to the center of the cell. He’s always liked this piece, one of the few dances where he gets to take the traditionally female role. 

For ten minutes, he chases you across the space—as Kronos chased you across time. He lets you move him, but only in the prescribed manners—as he’s always followed your lead. He is wrapped in your embrace, only to be freed to dance again—as your partnership has always been.

By the end, you are both comfortable on silent feet. You touch and move around each other like extensions of yourselves. You are partners. You are complements. You belong.

Your pulse is elevated from the physical work, but your chest is loose and easy. “You’ll have to give me a black eye,” you say. “Otherwise they’ll know Gideon faked the fight.”

“No,” he says, as always unwilling to hurt you. 

“Gideon, open the door,” you say. She does, and you steel yourself for the pain to come. 

You walk into the door, hard enough to give yourself a shiner. You’re more than familiar with how much force you need. Lewis didn’t hit you much if you already bore evidence of his previous blows.

You’d taught Lisa to do it too.

“Damnit, Lenny!” The name out of his mouth is almost as good as his choice to dance out your problems instead of fighting for them. You smile. “Don’t you dare smirk at me, buddy.” He gets your arm over his shoulder, like he’s supporting you from more damaging injuries. “We’re taking you to the med bay right now.” 

You both step forward on your right feet. Your steps are the same length, the same tempo. You rest your head on his shoulder, content at last.


End file.
